I fancied myself a pretty competent independent traveller but things became shamefully co-dependent once I got married. In a recent long flight on my own where he wouldn’t be waiting at the airport, I was a ball of nerves. What if I got lost at immigration, what if I didn’t find my bag, what if my phone didn’t work. None of those things happened. My competent grade still stands, after all. And something better happened. I started to remember who I was again.
For days and days, I returned to solo travelling like a fish to water. With music in my ears and my phone for navigation, I embraced and relished life the way I always loved it best. Lost in my own thoughts, watching human faces, soaking up the vibe of a new place, discovering new routes and places. I worked, shopped, ate, read, painted, played piano and exercised alone, made soulful new friendships and reconnected with soul friends from 20 years ago.
If it is possible to feel one’s shape return to our most authentic self, then the freedom of roaming a new space independently is the closest I feel to being home. The interior world expands when we obtain autonomy in our destiny. There is something not simply metaphorical but also literal in this sentiment. This is why the pandemic lockdown killed the spirit of so many nomadic spirits.
As my last week of this solo adventure came up, I started to feel sentimental about parting with my solitude. There is a truth in being alone- a reminder that this is our original condition, and also the condition of our end. Sometimes it is a painful and terrifying truth. And sometimes it is comforting to know that we are staying close to our truth.